


Leaves in the Wind

by Loudest_Voice



Category: Fire Emblem: If | Fire Emblem: Fates
Genre: Anger, Disguised Royalty, Gen, Moment of Despair, Mystery, Nohr, Non-Graphic Violence, Oneshot, Orphans, Poverty, Royalty Among Peasants, War, missing people, pre-game, thieves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-24
Updated: 2016-02-24
Packaged: 2018-05-22 20:26:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6093049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loudest_Voice/pseuds/Loudest_Voice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ryoma travels to Nohr as a commoner to learn more about his enemies, desperate for a course of action that might lead to peace. It might've been easier for his peace of mind if he'd skipped the risk, but a man who shirks risk and difficulty is not fit for rule.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leaves in the Wind

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even remember what distracted me from writing last time, but I'm back. In a new fandom. At least this is a one-shot.
> 
> I haven't finished the Birthright route yet (up to chapter 25), so please don't spoil in the comments if you should be so nice as to comment. Also, my characterization will probably be off.

Commoners are leaves knocked about by wind, except the  _wind_ is  _their nobles' whims._ Ryoma reminds himself as much at least twice a day now. He dreams of--no, he will  _achieve_ peace for Hoshido, and he will not manage it if he can't see Nohrians as people.

Sometimes, they seem no more than savages. Gangly teens with brows fit for aging drunkards rip molding bread from orphan fingers. Girls of indeterminate age, bluish veins visible through thin skin that almost never sees the sun, promise him nights in paradise for a coin. Or just the strip of meat left on the bones of whatever animal he's bought or killed. Most often killed. The houses, seeming large and sturdy from the outside, rarely boast a fire. Empty silence clings to Nohr like incense clings to a dying man.

Ryoma can't make sense of it. He's been in Nohr for three weeks telling the few people who ask that he's a disgraced foot soldier for the Hoshidan military seeking odd jobs. At first, he'd dismissed the sparse streets and malnourished ghosts roaming Nohrian streets as casualties of embargoes, demolished trade routes, and profiteering bandits summoned by rumors of war. A few Hoshidan border towns are in similar conditions, though Ryoma likes to think that the people are more cheerful. He'd been certain that as he approached the heart of Nohr, he'd find . . .

He doesn't remember what he expected anymore. The decadent court he'd always imagined, maybe, though now he can't quite recall either of his parents describing Nohr as such. More people, perhaps. Certainly more nobles and merchants enjoying the profits of Nohr's choke-hold on any region not under Hoshido's umbrage. At this point, Ryoma would even settle for more people in general, even if they all proved to be as hopeless and opportunistic as the majority he's met so far.

But Nohr feels like an empty tomb. There are deserted homes that have yet to fall into disrepair, almost like families packed up and left in the recent past. Ryoma broke into one of them once, certain that he'd find people (either the owners, or just stragglers) hidden in the crannies. 

He'd found nothing but dust coating fine silverware and sturdy furniture.

He's kept to the taverns since. Ryoma's not scared exactly, fear would've been easier to handle if anything, but he _is_ . . . unsettled. Just where had the Nohrians  _gone?_

"What can I do you for tonight, stranger?" a serving serving girl asks him, her bruised knuckles wrapped over an uneven tray.

"Ale." First time Ryoma tried Nohrian water, he'd suffered a humiliating bout of the runs. He has no desire to repeat the experience, or pick up some parasite.

There's rarely any music in the taverns he visits. Once or twice, someone would try a tune in a screechy harmonica just to be chased away once they asked for tips. Ryoma's not sure what he intends to learn anymore. Almost no one talks to him. Those who do offer him a pittance if he bullies or kills a merchant here or there. The least objectionable offer came from a boy wanting him to play the savage so he could be the hero for some girl who refused his advances. Ryoma would have taken the job for amusement's sake, except he had not wanted to risk landing the poor girl with a liar.

A short man with graying hair and a limp sits beside Ryoma as he's considering making his leave, thoughts occupied with his next destination. The deeper he goes into the country, the harder it will be to fade to the background while so obviously Hoshidan. "Not often you see a man with your visage this far into Nohr," he says.

Ryoma assumes the man means his eyes and dark hair. Not that it's so easy to tell a Nohrian from a Hoshidan these days. For two countries that are at each other's throats, there's certainly no dearth of intermingling, especially along the borders. Ryoma tries to see it as a good sign. If Nohrians and Hoshidans are willing to have children with each other, or at least copulate, than they must have some common ground.

"You got connections on the other side?" asks the man.

"You mean Hoshido?"

The man's eyes flit around before settling on Ryoma's, challenging and resigned.

During his first few days in Nohr, Ryoma might have laughed. Now he knows that in Nohr, the mere whisper of Hoshido's name is dangerous. It had been a shameful shock to learn that the average Nohrian commoner feared Hoshidans as much as people back home feared Nohr. More, in some cases. Hunger is not so rampant in Hoshido.

"I do hail from there," says Ryoma, downing a gulp of bitter ale.

"The cherry blossoms are close to red this time of year," says the man.

It's winter in Hoshido. Besides, the cherry blossoms hover around pink and lavender, never approaching red. "What?"

The man rears back as though struck by an onmyogi spirit. "Never mind," he burtles, stepping off his stool. "Just the ramblings of an old man."

Ryoma follows the man, dropping a few coins on the counter, for once grateful that Nohr is a ghost country. He's sure that no one would interfere if he bashed questions out of the man right in the middle of the tavern, but . . . but. Ryoma isn't in Nohr to be a savage. So he follows the man as quietly as he's able without drawing undue attention, missing his retainers as he'd miss his limbs. He's a large man unused to subterfuge, and the strange Nohrian morphs into a nimble wisp of a bastard.

Not long after, Ryoma's in going from deserted alleyway to deserted alleyway, cursing the feeble moonlight cutting through the blanket of cold mist smothering the city. The Nohrian has vanished into one of the city's holes. Unwilling to surrender what feels like the first notable person he's met on his trip, Ryoma keeps looking. He spots a few people keeping their heads down as his eyes scan the streets, but no one makes eye contact. He's learned not to ask too many questions.

Rats scurry through old garbage, reassuring Ryoma that the people must be hiding somewhere. Without people, there are no rats. He hears beating wings a second before a wyvern flies over the moon. As it passes by, a band of ruffians goes for Ryoma's throat.

Mimicking a novice with a sword is a special art, especially in a duel to the death. Ryoma dodges dagger swings, hand itching for his sword, struggling against instincts that would single him out as a swordmaster. Five assailants, none with anything resembling formal training. He slams at the back of one's neck and wrestles a cheap hatchet out of his hands as the man he falls. A second attacker charges with a yell as Ryoma lets himself be driven against a wall.

Ryoma ducks and kicks at the assailants' knees, striking with the hatchet in a too-wide arc that lands above the man's head. Regardless, the man yelps as he scuttles away.

"Just give us your gold and we'll let you go," says one of the assailants.

Ryoma is too tired for snorts. He rises without bothering to act the least bit concerned at being outnumbered. "Leave."

"Big guy like you wandering around up here's gotta be swimming in coin," says the attacker.

"Up here?" asks Ryoma.

And just like that, the encounter shifts. The boys launch themselves at Ryoma with more desperation, if not more skill. Their strikes quicken and their coordination improves, forcing Ryoma into the smoother footwork of an experienced fighter. When he strikes one of the boys down, two others rush at him in a formation that would be certain suicide in a real fight. Ryoma knocks them down, too impatient to consider their mortality and soften his blows. If he kills them, then he kills them. He needs answers.

The rest of the attackers have gone up in smoke, leaving Ryoma in the middle of the wide street with nothing but bodies for company.

Ryoma stifles a frustrated shout. What is he _doing_ in Nohr? No matter how discreet or gentle he tries to be, no matter how often he extends a cautious hand of friendship, or how often he attempts to give off a diplomatic-if-not-harmless air, Nohrians either flee or try to rob him. Maybe the country really _is_ teeming with thieves, savages, and vultures.

Footsteps hit the ground and disturb the trash barrels at the corner. Ryoma is rushing towards the sound on instinct, heart pounding blood towards his limbs. Before the sun rises, he will have answers for the questions he can't even voice.

He has to look down to catch the movement. The person is small, but Ryoma is done underestimating the seemingly pathetic Nohrians scurrying about. He pursues with long strides, determined not to let the bastard squeeze through any random aperture in the crowd of empty homes. His prey leads him, perhaps purposely, to narrower corners where shadows compound on each other and the slightest movement is as loud as thunder.

Heedless of the possibility of rushing towards a trap, Ryoma runs, gazed fixed on the on the child's back. Even before his hand is closing around a thin arm, Ryoma guesses that he's caught a child.

"Letgoletgoletgo-- _augh!_ " the kid screams before Ryoma covers his mouth.

"Quiet," hisses Ryoma, though he doubts anyone would interfere. The kid stills. "I'll let you down, but first promise not to scream."

Ryoma waits for the nod, then sets the kid (boy? girl?) on the ground.

The kid turns around and fixes narrow eyes on him. "What do you want?"

Peace for Hoshido. To sleep under the Hoshidan sun. His father back. His siblings' voices, in no particular order. Ryoma sighs, cursing his foolishness. Did he imagine an anonymous Nohrian child might hand him solutions?

"There's something strange going on in the city," he says to the kid since he'd gone through the trouble of catching him. "Where is everyone?" In the entire accursed country, he doesn't add.

"Home, if they got one."

"Don't waste my time," says Ryoma.

The kid balks, responding to the threat in Ryoma's voice. The threat he hadn't meant to deliver.

"Tell me," says Ryoma, ignoring a flash of guilt for terrorizing a boy half his size.

"I'll tell you _nothing_ ," spits the boy. "Beat me bloody if you like, rip the skin off my bones. I'll die happy if I made it harder for a single Hoshidan scum."

Ryoma stares, forgetting to breather.

The kid whirls around and runs.

Ryoma stares at the child's skinny legs. His belly sinks. It's not Nohr's army he faces, but the distilled hatred in that child's voice. He should return home, ready Hoshido's military, orchestrate a definitive strike against Nohr once and for all.

And then what? Hunt down every Nohrian who despises Hoshido and . . .

Holding back a sigh, Ryoma goes the opposite way. The forest is not far off. Better to sleep among literal wolves than risk a night at the inn. Or inside Nohr's eerie abandoned homes.

**Author's Note:**

> Writing is hard :(. 
> 
> In less whiny news, I'm hoping to write some pairing fic once I finish the game. Or when Revelations comes out and I can choose classy and not at all wish-fulfillment Nohr/Hoshido pairings. 
> 
> And [my blog](http://www.dynamicallyopposed.com/) is here.


End file.
